The heart of Art

I don’t remember how we figured it out, but Art was pretty distressed when I told him I knew the letter was from him. “Darn city slickers,” I can imagine him saying. But I had been forewarned by his stories from the Sputnik era, when he and a friend planted a contraption on someone’s property that pretended to be a piece of the fallen Russian satellite. They played the friend for all he was worth before revealing their prank. Now that I think of it, we could have had a few months’ worth of good fun with the Eagle Institute prank, if I had been half as smart as Art.

He told Beth he didn’t want a memorial service. I’m sorry for that. But he didn’t say I couldn’t write about him. So long, friend.